


Blood and Tears

by Zinnith



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blood, Crying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Male-Female Friendship, POV Second Person, Partnership, Pre-Movie, Things I Write Instead of the Things I Should Write, artsy and pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Your tears haven’t been your own since you were very young. They have been a weapon, they have been a shield, and they have been a tool. You will cry for the mission but you never cry for yourself.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from [avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5758.html?thread=7631998#t7631998) Unbeta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes.

You hear the shot first, echoing between the buildings. A split moment later, Hawkeye’s head snaps to the side. He goes down beside you, goes still, and he doesn’t get up again.

 _Headshot_ , the cold rational part of you thinks. _That’s it, then._

Hope is a dangerous thing. You learned long ago not to take anything for granted, that any attempt to settle down and stop running will end in disappointment. You always knew that this couldn’t last forever, but the sight of him sprawled on the ground on a bed of scattered arrows still makes your stomach freeze, and you have to swallow around the sour taste that threatens to rise in the back of your throat.

You force yourself to look, to take in every single detail, commit this image to memory as a reminder of what happens to everyone you try to form an attachment to. His eyes are closed. His face and the side of his head is covered in blood. It runs down his neck and throat in thick red rivulets, curls around the line of his ear before it drips onto the ground. It doesn’t look like he’s breathing.

A kill is not a kill unless it’s confirmed, though you can’t really see the point this time. You kneel by his side and your hands are rock steady when you reach out to feel for a pulse. Just one more thing on the to-do list before you have to start making decisions about where to go next.

...he coughs.

His eyelashes shiver against his ghostly pale cheeks.

Alive?

You have to double check to make sure. There’s a groove along the side of his head where the shot glanced him and it’s bleeding copiously, as head wounds are wont to do, but he has a pulse. His eyelids are already fluttering open and the next moment, he’s looking right at you. One of his pupils is blown wide and he can’t quite focus his eyes, but he’s in there and your name is on his lips.

You feel like bursting into laughter. Of course Clint Barton would have a head so hard that bullets bounce right off.

In the short time you’ve known him, he’s become your anchor and your touchstone. You can use his eyes as a mirror and like what you see. It makes no sense, that a man whose hands are just as washed in blood as your own should be your chance at redemption, but he _is_.

And it looks like you might get to keep him for a while longer after all.

Your tears haven’t been your own since you were very young. They have been a weapon, they have been a shield, and they have been a tool. You will cry for the mission but you never cry for yourself. 

Somewhere deep inside you, a dam breaks. The floodgates open and the girl who was once Natalia Alianovna Romanova is weeping. It isn’t pretty. There’s snot and huge, hulking sobs. Someone is making wounded little animal noises, and it’s not until you feel shaking fingers pawing on your arm that your realize they’re coming from you.

“‘s alright,” Clint murmurs, the words slurring together so badly that they’re almost impossible to make out. “Don’... don’ cry, Nat. Jus’ winged me, ’m fine.”

He makes an awkward attempt to pat your back, hands weak and trembling. The deep furrow along his scalp is leaking blood and he’s too dizzy to even sit up straight, and yet he’s comforting _you_.

You sit back on your haunches and wipe the tears from your eyes, blinking furiously until your vision clears. Then you dig a field bandage out of your pocket and press it against his head to try to stem the blood flow. He leans into your touch, mutters something inaudible against your hand. Your skin can read the meaning of it even though you can’t make out the words.

“We need a medevac,” you say into the comm. “Agent Barton is down with a severe head injury.”

Later, your sit by his side in the transport. Clint has refused every attempt to make him let go of your hand, so you’ve been given the task of keeping him awake and alert until you can deliver him into the waiting embrace of SHIELD medical. The medics have been giving you furtive glances ever since they first noticed the wet trails on your cheeks. You don’t care. These are _your_ tears. You will not allow anyone to steal them from you.

“What is it?” you ask, after Clint has been staring at you for several minutes without saying anything.

His free hand flops around in an uncoordinated motion that’s probably meant to indicate something. “Y’re all... blotchy.”

You can’t keep back a smile. “And you’re very concussed.”

“‘Least ‘m still pretty.”

“You realize they’ll have to shave your head to stitch you up?”

The horrified expression on his face when he raises a protective hand to his hair almost makes you laugh. No one has ever been able to make you laugh like he does. No one has ever been able to make you _want_ to laugh.

You’re both damaged in your own ways, but your broken pieces fit together into something that could, with time, be whole.


End file.
